A Letter from the Cupboard
by Doneril
Summary: After the war, Harry writes a letter.


Madame Tawton,

I grew up in a cupboard.

The media tries to play that down, but I thought you should know. I grew up in cupboard and I can cook a mean roast chicken.

I think those were two of the most defining elements of my childhood. The cupboard and kitchen. Sad, isn't it? To this day, I can't cook a meal without remembering that kitchen. It was as sterile as a hospital room and I was taught to keep it that way. In the morning, I would fry eggs for the family. At night, I would cook them dinner. During the year, I made bag lunches for my cousin and myself. I prided myself on how I could cook; telling myself that even if it was supposed to be a chore, I could make it fun. Cooking was much better than weeding my aunt's flower beds.

The cupboard wasn't so bad either. There have been enough jokes among my friends, once I had the courage to tell them, about growing up in a closet. Apparently, wizards use the euphemism as readily as Muggles do. I like my cupboard. I had my spiders and my books and I was never punished in my cupboard. It was my personal space and I was the only person who ever went in there.

Everyone always pities me when I tell them this. I hate that. I'm not saying that I think all children should be locked in cupboards and forced to cook meals for their ungrateful families. I'm sure I would have greatly enjoyed my own room with a real bed and having a mother and father make meals for me. I'm sure I would be a more stable person if I had those.

But the point is that I didn't. I grew up in a cupboard and I learned to cook at a tender age. I can't change that. No one can.

But it prepared me for my life as a boy-hero that began when I turned eleven and joined the magical world. I knew what independence was. I knew how to correct my own mistakes and when my allies abandoned me, I knew how to make it on my own.

There was a long time that I was angry about this. I suppose I still am. I mean, what kind of bastard locks a kid in a cupboard under the stairs and then tells him to save the world? That's really fucked up. It should be illegal. I went from being less than nothing to being the hope of the world in, oh, three seconds flat. Of course, I was angry. I saw my peers living normal lives while I had to deal with all of this.

But you have to roll with the punches. I grew up in a cupboard and knew how to cook. I learned to turn my weaknesses into strengths. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here now. I took stock of what I had: I could live on my own, I could live without coddling, and I knew the purpose of learning on my feet (Have you ever had to avoid a falling pot of boiling stew at the age of nine?). This put me ahead of the Dark, with their lush homes, caring families, and busy House Elves.

So my childhood skills helped us win the war.

I don't think Dumbledore realized this when he dropped me off on the Dursley's doorstep without as much as a by-your-leave. He has seemed very apologetic every time I confronted him with my childhood, or lack there of. This wasn't some grand scheme. It was a patchwork performance played by ear.

But we won, so I think we did well.

Deaths marked my teen years as much as cupboard and kitchen marked my childhood. At eleven, I killed. At twelve, I met my enemy. At thirteen, I found my allies. At fourteen, I learned the price of failure. At fifteen, I tried to torture. At sixteen, I succeeded. At seventeen, my hands were so soaked in blood I was shocked I could wash them white.

I was Theseus and Achilles and Cuchulain. I stood in the front of an army, armed only with a millennia-old sword and a piece of holly. I killed and tortured and maimed and injured. I made orphans and widows. I killed men, women, and children.

We rose victorious, soaked in blood and sweat, reeking of death and pain

I know what you want me to do, Madame Tawton. You want to write my biography and you want me to make it clean. You want to write about a saint who conquered Satan. You want to see St. Harry Potter the Pure. You want to give me a halo and maybe have a picture of a rapturous, green-eyed angel casting an ugly, red-eyed demon back to the Pit from whence he came.

I won't give you what you want. War is hard. War is deadly. War is bloody. War is dirty. War gets down under your skin and fingernails and into your hair and nose and it feels like it will never leave.

I am living a happily quiet live with my wife now. We are as far from the battlefields as we can get. There is a reason I left England. I am running from my past. I am on another continent where no one stares at my scar or asks for my autograph. I'm happy here.

I can't give you what you want and I won't.

On my right hand, the words I will not tell lies still stand out in bold scar tissue. As much as it pains me to see that cruelty every day, I live by it.

Harry Potter

Godric's Pride

Brisbane, Queensland


End file.
